


Triptych

by Bridie_Brackenhoe



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-16 11:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17549105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridie_Brackenhoe/pseuds/Bridie_Brackenhoe
Summary: In the aftermath, Hilda and Zelda struggle with the implications of their actions. Lilith wants them all to just get along.A direct sequel toScratch.





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to my other fic, [Scratch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16828768), so if you haven't read it, please toddle along and do so if that kind of thing is your cup of tea.
> 
> I bring you some more angst. It's a gift.

Zelda wakes in the literal bosom of her sister and her mortification is complete. She would have been better off if Hilda had actually killed her and left her to rot. 

She is an old, old woman; she has had decades for bad habits and impure thoughts to burrow deep into her psyche and to fester. Such ingrained corruption is nigh on impossible to excise. Zelda knows, she has tried and tried. Years of suppressing lust takes its toll and it does not disappear cushioned between Hilda's thighs. And while she may have had those thoughts, she harbored them in secret and kept them close to avoid the shame because even though she swore to do what thou wilt, the Dark Lord has standards. She had never acted upon them but now that saving grace has been destroyed by Hilda’s climax, laid to rest with her taint on its lips. 

Still, she lays for a long time, watching the pair sleep. Mary’s arm is thrown around Hilda’s waist, Hilda softly snoring, the underscore of many of Zelda’s sleepless nights. She brushes Hilda’s hair away from her forehead and Hilda stirs. She’d stay here if she could but she can’t let herself be here when they wake. She kisses her fingers and presses them to Hilda’s lips, strokes Mary’s soft hair, tries her hardest to sear this image into her memory, before slipping down the hall to her own room, unseen, unheard. 

She’s at the breakfast table listening to Sabrina recount her latest exploits, when she sees Mary slip out the front door and Hilda surfaces, wary and hopeful with a nervous smile. Zelda feels her mental fingers along the base of her skull. She puts her walls in place, sees Hilda’s smile falter and her shoulders round as she begins to cook. Zelda turns back to the financial pages; numbers and foreign languages take more mental real estate, less room for those thoughts. She hums along to her niece’s stories, offers a choice bon mot when appropriate and all the time, maintains that wall so that Hilda can’t get in again. 

She takes to the whip. It must have been Hilda’s poison still slipping through her veins, bringing down her defenses. She had acquiesced to Hilda and Mary’s advances because she was drugged. The family name could have been ruined because Hilda and Mary Wardwell facilitated her downfall. Tempted her and she failed. This must be true, it must, it must, it must, each syllable punctuated with the bite of the scourge, but the pain does not extinguish the tiny light of truth that she had done what she did willingly, she had loved every minute and given half the chance, she would damn well do it again.

Before, she would have simply killed Hilda. She would have cracked her over the head or pushed her down the stairs. Hilda would have resurrected, made her way back to the house and the whole sorry mess would reset itself like clockwork. Unleashed animosities would be reined in, coping mechanisms clicked back into place, masks that had fallen exposing ugly undersides repositioned. Hilda would be back at her stove, Zelda behind her paper and all would be right and the Spellman machine would roll on. 

Then Hilda had thrown a Mary Wardwell shaped spanner in the works. Now the best way to deal with the situation was the way she’d been dealing with it for centuries. She delicately pulls on her silk blouse over the blistered wounds. She will avoid it. It has worked for her before and she sees no reason to change now. 

 ***

Hilda is not, despite the many insults from Zelda, stupid. She knows exactly what is going through Zelda’s mind, so she gives her space, lets her process the situation, waits for when Zelda finally cracks. 

She goes to Mary's cottage. She covets the cottage; compared to the austere mortuary, it is homely and welcoming. Lilith lets her in, leads her to the bedroom, pretends to listens to her concerns about the distance Zelda is putting between them. She gives an arm rub here and an “Oh no!” there, then she brings Hilda off in her own inimitable way because that trick Hilda has, that mutual, empathic climax is efficient and beneficial and the best thing since any kind of bread, sliced or otherwise.

"Have you tried talking to her?" Lilith lays with her head on Hilda's lap. She's a bit bored of the drama, but she's sated for now and willing to play along with the human aspect of all this for a while. With Hilda's fingers running through her hair and the warmth of the fire, sleep is beckoning. 

"I would if I ever bloody saw her. She's avoiding me like I'm a witch hunter." She rubs at her temples and Lilith reaches up, gently takes hold of a hand, puts it back where Hilda can resume her hair stroking. 

“I don't see what her problem is…” she murmurs. 

“Well, I’ve always thought that there are two Zeldas. Outside Zelda and Inside Zelda. Outside Zelda is put together and proud and a good devotee of the Dark Lord. She goes to Black Mass and keeps up appearances, and will do anything for the family name. And Inside Zelda… Well, she’s not like that. To be honest, I don’t know Inside Zelda very well. Whenever I’d get close, she’d kill me and that was sort of that…”

This is all foreign to Lilith. She's never had a sibling, and she’s thanking the Dark Lord about that right now because they seem like they’re hard work. She's also never been overly worried by social mores and what other people think of her. She just sees that Hilda is hurting and that makes her feel something she's not overly fond of feeling. She likes the good feelings, like when she and Hilda and Zelda were at one. That was superb and she wants that again. 

“Well, obviously, I don't know her like you do, but it sounds like she needs a good talking to.” Lilith is pleased at how responsible she sounds. She is about to drift off, and settles herself further into Hilda’s warmth but then the warmth is moving and Hilda is getting up and looking for her clothes. Lilith mewls in frustration. 

"Where are you going?"

Hilda frowns at her. 

“You’re tired, you should sleep.”

Lilith isn’t sure if she’s done something she shouldn’t have or not done something she should have. 

“I need some time alone.”

 

***

 

“Auntie! What are you doing out here?”

Hilda sits on the roof, just outside of Ambrose’s bedroom window, watching the moon rise. She's wrapped in one of his blankets and by her side is box of pastries which she offers to him as he climbs out. He’s been out and is a bit tipsy but she can sense he’s happy and that makes her happy. He takes an offered treat, sits next to her, puts down the ancient cricket bat that he’d brought out to defend himself against whatever it was that had left his window open.

“Apple tarts? It must be bad.”

Hilda smiles wistfully. She pops the last bite in to her mouth, relishes the comfort it brings for a fleeting moment. Good things are always trailed by a snarling, dripping guilt, it seems. She takes another from the box. 

“I know you come out here, I’ve felt you. It always makes you calm. I figured it must be a good place to think.” 

“It is a superb place to think,” he nods. “It’s also a superb place to hide the use of illicit substances from a certain strict aunt whose name may or may not begin with a Z.” Ambrose nudges her, expecting the giggly shock he can usually rile up in her but she just smiles. 

“That would explain the calm, then I suppose.” A thought occurs. "I don’t suppose you have any of those illicit…”

He shakes his head.

“No?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

“I do, however, have this…” He pulls a half empty bottle from his jacket pocket, unscrews the cap and offers it to her, expecting her to refuse. She doesn’t. She takes a hefty swig, holds it in her mouth for a moment and breathes in through her nose before swallowing. He waits for the shudder; it doesn’t come. She gives him the bottle back. 

“That’s absolute piss, that is,” she grimaces.

“Oh I know,” he takes a mouthful himself. “I'm not drinking it for its elegant bouquet and impeccable terroir.” 

Hilda is distracted, tired. Worry curls inside Ambrose. He hasn’t been home much but Sabrina has told him about the disintegrating atmosphere at the Spellman Sisters’ Mortuary. Zelda is being more Zelda and Hilda’s even more Hilda, is how she’d put it and Ambrose knows that is not an optimum situation. He’s lived with them longer than his cousin, knows them a little better but if he’s honest, they are still mostly enigmas to him. He does know not to push either of them so he and Hilda sit in companionable silence while the moon rises, partially obscured by cloud. Ambrose can’t remember the last time they’d been alone like this. Before Sabrina came along, they’d spent many hours together. While Zelda was the rod, Hilda was the balm, always there to pick up the pieces to soothe him to sleep, nurse his illnesses and many, many bumps and scrapes. 

“This is always the best part of the day, when the stars come out.” Hilda’s voice is so quiet, Ambrose has to move in to hear her. “They’re there during the day, you know. Always there. All that ancient light and we can’t see it. They try so hard to send it out and we miss it.” 

Ambrose’s skin goosebumps. 

“It just takes the darkness to make them shine.”

Never once in all the time he has known her has he heard Hilda sound like this and it terrifies him. 

“What's wrong, Aunt Hilda?” 

She takes another bite of her tart and shakes her head. The tears sting. 

“I can't tell you, lamb.“

“How about hypothetically? It can't be that bad, can it?” He puts his arm around her shoulders.

She wants to tell him. Satan knows that of all the people in her life, Ambrose would be the one to understand and if he wasn’t a card carrying member of the Spellman clan, she might have told him. As it is, she is so stained by Zelda’s shame that she remains silent, pulls a piece of apple from the pastry and licks it from her fingers. She rests her head on his shoulder, a tear drips onto his velvet jacket.

“Fair enough, you don’t have to tell me,” he says gently. “But if you ever feel like you can, you know where I am.”

“Up here, getting high, by the sound of it,” she manages a small, damp giggle. He puts his hands up in acknowledgement. “You’re getting cold, love. Get yourself inside and put the kettle on. I'll be okay.” She wipes her eyes and gives him an unconvincing smile. He drops a kiss on her head and heads back in through the window, pauses and looks back.

“Talk to her.” 

He disappears and she is alone with her stars. He’s left the bottle. She stays until it’s empty and all the tarts are gone.


	2. Supernova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda finally breaches Zelda's defenses.

Hilda confronts Zelda in the mortuary, over the cold corpse of Mr. Thomas Abernathy. She runs through her prerehearsed reasoning, bulleting points with each step of the spiral staircase. Zelda squints at her through her goggles, tube in hand. 

"What are you doing down here?" 

Hilda's heart is hammering. She gently bounces on the balls of her feet. Zelda is unlikely to use one of the many, many instruments in here as weapons but the potential still makes her nervous. Killing Hilda might be off the table, but there's no reason she won't settle for a good maiming. 

"Zelda, we need to talk."

"Not now, Hilda." Zelda turns her back, starts attaching the tube to a small pump. "If don't get Mr Abernathy's embalming started, he's going to start leaking all over the place." 

"Bugger Mr Abernathy!" Hilda snaps. Zelda's eyebrows gravitate to her hair line. She turns around slowly, menacing. This new, assertive Hilda is starting to grate. 

Hilda pushes her fear under, grabs onto that assertiveness like a life raft but still she stammers. "W-what we did wasn't bad, Zelda. Quite the opposite." Bullet point two. 

Zelda removes her goggles. 

"Oh, Hilda. You'll never understand, will you? It was "bad" as you so eloquently put it. It was more than bad and if this ever got out, we'd be ruined." 

She has used this tone so many times over the years. It sets Hilda's teeth on edge to be condescended to constantly but she forges on. She rounds the gurney towards Zelda, and forces her to back up until she hits the bank of refrigerator doors. 

"So what if it doesn't get out?" A variation of bullet point three. 

Zelda draws breath, about to shoot that idea down when Hilda reaches up and kisses her and Zelda for a moment, just for a glorious moment, kisses her back, before catching herself. 

"Hilda, we can't. Mr Abernathy... "

"Yeah, I'm fairly sure we can trust Mr. Aberbathy." Hilda moves back in, a hand behind Zelda's head to get better purchase. 

Not even the sting of the welts on her back can absolve Zelda of the memories that are flooding back, the taste of her sister, the smell, the flash of orgasm, of Hilda screaming her name. 

"I can't do this, Hilda. Me. I can't." She concentrates on the pain, uses it as a touchstone to ground herself. 

"Oh, for Satan's sake, yes, yes, you can. I give you permission. You can have me, always, Zelda, I am yours. You could have had me years ago if you'd just taken the stick out of your pretty little arse." Hilda feels her relax, almost imperceptibly, the tiniest of gravitational shifts. She takes heart. "And as for people finding out, its tame compared to what goes on nowadays. Probably. We have lived in this town for Satan knows how long and not one person has ever found out what we really are."

Zelds begins to protest, Hilda cuts her off with a finger to the lips. 

"Unless we have told them. Not one."

Zelda is hyper-aware of Hilda pressed up against her, pinning her. Her fingers itch. 

"I want more than anything for you to be happy. I want you to be able to accept yourself and to accept me and Mary, and for us to finally, finally be who we bloody well are. Bollocks to everyone else." 

Hilda takes Zelda's hand, guides it to her chest and catches Zelda's whimper with her mouth, standing on tip toes. Zelda brings her other hand and cups Hilda's breasts, feeling the soft heft of them. Hilda closes her eyes. She may not have the wealth of experience Zelda claims but she knows she likes this. Zelda runs her thumbs over the pebbled nipples, relishing the shuddering of Hilda's unstable exhale. 

"Dear Satan, Zelda," she whispers. "it's not giving in, I haven't defeated you." 

Clever Hilda. Zelda's pride will not take being beaten.

Many blood moons ago, she had knelt on a frosty forest floor, knees aching and agreed when Edward had instructed her to "do what thou wilst." He had no idea. 

"I should kill you..."

"But you won't."

No, she won't. 

Her mouth finds Hilda's again and she dominates. If she's going to do this, they will do it on her terms. She bites Hilda's neck, her collarbone, licks at cleavage on her way down to her knees but Hilda stops her, pulls her back up. 

"No. It's your turn..." 

She leads Zelda to the chair in the small office, kneels in front of her. She takes her time, running her hands over Zelda's thighs, marvelling at how slim and taut they are. She and Mary have a lot in common. She is knot tight under Hilda's palms. 

Hilda has to admit, she's nervous too. She's never done this before but Zelda seems fascinated with her breasts so she opens a few of her own buttons so her sister can get a better view from her vantage point. Every little helps, she thinks, although it seems Zelda is fairly far gone by this point. Her breathing is shallow and when Hilda's fingers brush against the fabric of her underwear, she finds them damp.

"Hells teeth, Hilda, get on with it..." Zelda is pulls the knickers down, and that facade of control is slipping. A tendril of red hair falls over her forehead. The relief when Hilda finally acquiesces, pushes Zelda's skirt and apron up around her hips, finds Zelda's clit with her thumb is palpable. 

Zelda feels Hilda at the base of her skull and this time, she allows her in, just a small crack in her walls. Hilda reads the sensations she's creating, adjusts her rhythm and pressure. Zelda rides the waves and pulses, holds her breath to intensify the foreshocks, and just as her thighs clench and her climax builds in the pit of her stomach, Hilda removes her hand. Zelda roars in frustration until Hilda's tongue gets to work, and the sight of the blonde head between her thighs is the most obscene thing she's ever seen. This is what she'd done herself; Hilda is copying her and like the good student she is, she gets the same result. Zelda's world darkens momentarily and then she shines, radiant. Like Hilda before her, she screams her sister's name. 

Zelda has come undone, sprawled in the chair, skirt around her hips, the luminous golden hair between her legs made dark. She's always been so contained, controlled. The self-imposed impossible standards at her core pull everything in her orbit towards her; to see her collapse like this, Hilda can't help but admire her handiwork. 

In the wake of that collapse though, she is radiating guilt, running through each well worn thought like a dark rosary bead and she's already thinking of how to punish herself. 

"No, no, no...." Hilda pulls Zelda's skirt down, sits gingerly in her lap. 

She takes a deep breath and finds Zelda's emotional centre, the maelstrom roar that she's greeted with is mentally deafening. She's finally allowed through Zelda's walls and she"s shocked by the landscape she sees. So many fleeting images of years gone past, of herself when she returned for her baptism; the time they ended up drunk on mother's ruin celebrating the new Queen; the tie dye dress she wore with flowers in her hair that Zelda always said she hated, remembered clinging to curves in minute detail; Hilda in her garden, in the kitchen, asleep in a rocking chair. All preserved with lust and longing and self hate. She blocks it, soothes it away, smooths over the cracks, and for the first time in a long time, Zelda feels at peace. She pulls Hilda closer, needing to feel her solid warmth. 

"I will try, Hilda. But you must understand, this will not be easy for me."

"I know, love. But I'm here for you. You need to let me help you. Let me in..." 

She will try. If it means she can have what she has wanted for so many years, if Hilda is willing to go along with all this, she will try. If letting Hilda know about her bad thoughts will help end them, she is willing to try. If she gets to have Hilda between her legs again she will definitely try. 

She tightens her grip around Hilda's waist, offers a silent apology to Mr. Thomas Abernathy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 4am. Apologies for mistakes and typos.


End file.
